Friend?

Frothy waves of the sea ... teasing the shore and scampering back. Reminded me of my childhood when I used to ring my neighbour’s doorbell and run away before anyone could open the door. All its mightiness and yet the sea did behave like an impish child at times.

We were building sandcastles by the sea. Aryan and I. I was making a horrible house while he was making a fine fort. Awful attempt of mine, earnest effort of his.

“Aryan! I can’t seem to get the walls right. It isn’t fair that your fort is coming out so well. Help me with my home.”

Without looking up, he said “No.”

“You heartless cold creature!”

“Thanks!”

“Why do you take pride in being called an iceberg?”

“Saves me from unnecessary drama. The less you care, the less you are hurt. An attitude that you really need to adopt.”

I just sat helplessly and stuck my tongue out at him.

Sensing it somehow, he said “Yes, see! That child inside you isn’t letting you build your sand house properly.”

In what I hoped was a sad voice, I said “You won’t help me? Is that what friends are for?”

He looked up at me. “Friends? Is that ... Is that just what we are? Wow!” And he continued with his fort.

“Ummm ... But then what are we?”

I don’t know why and how but the moment just paused in the air. I couldn’t pin it. His hands were busy and yet I could sense his mind being busy elsewhere. I didn’t say anything further. After nearly half an hour, we both had finished our architectural attempts with the sea sand. And we were now perhaps thinking of appropriate words to break the uneasy silence. What could be said that wouldn’t be ... and a dog came and scrambled our thoughts. I mean the ‘sandcastles’! We both broke up in laughter! An hour of handwork all ruined in a few seconds.

I smiled and said “Ok Aryan, I had better get going. “

“Sure. Take care. See you.”

And we parted ways.

Aryan and I had got acquainted with each other on a social networking site. From sharing opinions to jokes, discussing current affairs and occasionally some gossip as well, our chats never restricted themselves to any particular topic. What I liked most about his was his practical nature, nonchalant attitude and the most remarkable, his wit. Over time, the jokes shared between us got raunchier and ever so slowly the curtain that keeps the formal separate from the candid slipped off. I now discussed almost everything with him. All my worries, beau troubles. He listened patiently and somehow that made all the difference. Telling him my troubles made them vanish from my mind. He too shared his work schedules, his girlfriend and family matters with me. And then one day, we met. At a cafe.

He was the tall, dark and handsome guy of any girl’s dreams. For all his wit and talk, he was even better in person. I thought of all the personal things I had shared with him and my face coloured, much to his amusement. We talked and laughed and enjoyed our time together. Each time that he spoke of his girlfriend his eyes twinkled up and each time that his eyes twinkled up they touched my heart. I don’t know why. As if his smile was a candle flame and my heart was a mirror. I told him of my boyfriend, his fickle childish nature and he laughed, though I don’t know if at me or at my boyfriend.

Over the span of a few months, circumstances had changed. He was still with his girl while I had broken my heart, nursed it back and was moving on with life. And we met a few more times. Like today. But today was different. I couldn’t answer him. He was more than a friend. But then what do you call someone who is more than a friend? Given all its words, the vocabulary failed me.

I reached home and kept my handbag on the table. The mobile buzzed and I picked it. Aryan had messaged me. And as usual, as ever, as always, his message brought a smile on my lips.

I don’t know whether you will agree with him or not but his message read “Accomplice? :P” 

A beautiful Sunday's penning

A meeting of minds,

A huddle of hearts,

An introduction of ideas,

A tryst of thoughts.

We met one evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

We discoursed, we discussed

And we talked much.

Avoiding seeing each other in the eye.

And yet it was those that didn’t lie.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.  

He spoke of his love, his passion.

I spoke of emotions and their transgression.

He weaved a wonderful web of lusty lies.

And that is when I looked him deeper in his eyes.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

His eyes were like two pools so deep ...

It took me all my might not to fall in them so steep.

They were like two magnets that pulled me closer.

I resisted. I repelled. I tried much harder.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

He asked me “Why do you love them so much?”

I said, “They never lie to me as such.

For all the tall tales that your tongue tells to be

Your eyes are the ones that are faithful to me”.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

Yet one dusty day  I confronted him without deviation

And told him I knew of fact from fiction.

He laughed it off and said “silly things!”

I laughed as I knew for sure it wouldn’t be funny for him

If I were ever to say those “silly things”.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning.

Bless his deep dark eyes

For they knew not how to tell lies.

We met yet another evening ...

A beautiful Sunday’s penning. 

Behind You ...

The squirrel kept scurrying from one branch to another – its hectic activity in stark contrast to the peace with which I was watching it, standing beside the kitchen window. The sound of the keys turning in the lock made my eyes follow what my ears heard. You had returned from your morning walk. You kept the bunch of keys on the table and before I could ask “shall I make some tea?” you lit a cigarette and started puffing it. Perhaps you had your tea and breakfast at the local cafe. I kept the two mugs back in the cupboard. I had waited for you to have tea with you. But since you’ve already had it ...

You went in the bedroom, switched on the AC, removed your shirt and hung it on the back of the chair. You then took you notepad and your pen and sat down on the bed ... staring in the air for your thoughts that were probably floating around. I guess you found your particular thought because you started writing passionately on the notepad.

The curtains were drawn and prohibited the lovely morning sunshine from entering the room. You might find it difficult to write in this darkness. I went and opened the curtains ... and the room lit up! But you got off the bed angrily and drew the curtains again, sending the room back into semi-darkness. You then went back to the bed, piled up three pillows, rested your elbow on them and lied down on your side. I came and sat right behind you ... your bare back facing me. Your body is so tempting, so irresistibly tempting! With love I run my hand on your smooth back. But you shrug off my hand. I am beckoning you with love but perhaps you find my love annoying. I have no intention of irritating you but no matter what I do, you get irked. Well then what do I do of my feelings towards you? What do I do about my mind and my heart which constantly think of you? Your deep eyes, your charming face, your lusty lips, your well-chiselled body and, to top it all, the magic that you create with your words ... I am helplessly lost in this web of words that you weave and find myself entrapped and am unable to break free, no matter how hard I try. You have unintentionally hypnotised me with your words, unaware of the turmoil it has caused within my heart and its desires.

I think of all this and with my finger I start writing out my thoughts on your back ... I start writing a poem on you. You keep shrugging and twitching but I don’t know if you are amused or annoyed by the touch of my fingers. If we were facing each other I would have known for sure but since you have turned your back on me I can only guess. Though, to tell you the truth, I find much happiness in this. I am contented with the way things are – you sit with your back turned towards me and keep writing stories while I sit behind you and keep writing poems on you. In fact I dread to see your eyes should you turn around and look at me. What will be there in your eyes for me? Anger? My God and my angels are angry with me as such ... my fate too has been rather ruthless with me ... and if I were to face your anger I would be unable to bear it and hence would die. On the other hand, what if you looked at me with love in your eyes? I have lost everything that I held dear in this world and am too scared to possess anything anymore. I won’t be able to hold your love in my broken heart. I would be unable to bear your love too.

No! Never! Please don’t ever turn around to look at me. Your anger will kill me and your love won’t let me live.

I am contented with the way things are – you sit with your back turned towards me and keep writing stories on paper while I sit behind you and keep writing poems on you.

So cool, so calm, so serene ...

It was quite cold in there. Chilly! She couldn’t stand the cold. But everyone told me it doesn’t matter as she is no more. But she was very much there. Wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. But yes, she was very much there.

Then she had to be taken away. How ruthlessly were her remains made to vanish from physical existence! Dust to dust ... ashes to ashes. How she burnt! How hot it had become! Everyone told me to look away. But I couldn’t. The fire from the funeral pyre was devouring her and I wanted to see the monster clearly. But my eyes hurt. And my skin burnt. Oh how hot it was!

We came back. Had a bath. Performed the rituals. But the somehow the heat wouldn’t go away. I bathed myself twice ... thrice ... I lost count. Yet the heat wouldn’t go away. Everyone was being very kind to me. Offered me advice. “Have something cold to eat and drink”. So I went to the ice cream parlour. Asked for the coldest ice cream ever. He stared at me oddly but scooped out some anyway. I was eager to know what kept it so cool. A freezer! But it was very hot to touch at! How could I expect it to cool me if it was so hot on its own? I left the ice cream and the parlour.

I had turned restless. The heat inside me was slowly eating me away. I had to cool myself or else I was afraid I too would burn away like her. Then one fateful night I happened to see the moon. The full moon! The full glorious moon! It was so calm, so cool, so serene ... no fire, no heat could touch it. I had to have the moon! Yes! If the mere sight of it could soothe my eyes then imagine what it could do to my body, my mind, my soul. How badly I wanted to touch it!

I asked the people around me as to how could I touch the moon. Mostly I was stared down upon. Few sympathised. I don’t know why. Then one kind soul guided me very lovingly. “The moon is high up, very high up! You too will have to go high up, very high up!”

I went to the topmost floor of a skyscraper. But the door to the terrace was locked. The security men stopped me from breaking it open. Why won’t they let me go?

“Why don’t you let me go?”

“Why do you want to go?”

“I want to jump and reach out to the moon.”

More security men were called and I was taken away. My family had been informed ... to keep an eye on me. Whatever for? Then one night I sneaked out of the house. Met a man - young of age and old of face. He searched my pockets for whatever that he wanted. They were empty. “Why do you roam in the middle of the night?” he asked. “I want to reach out to the moon but no one lets me. So I have run away and am looking for somewhere higher than a skyscraper” I said. “Go to the hills. They are higher than the skyscrapers of the city” he said.

So off I went to climb a hill. I met many people clothed in saffron robes. Atop the hill I saw a temple. Maybe there was a secret escalator in there that took people up to the moon? I went in. Saw a stone idol of a woman. A ferocious looking woman. Everyone was bowing down to her and was offering her coconuts and whatnots. I, empty of heart, hands and pockets, offered her nothing. Suddenly she spoke to me, “You cannot reach the moon from here, my child. You will have to go to a higher place. Go to the Himalayas. Go to the highest peak in the Himalayas.” I bowed down and thanked her profusely but she had turned into stone again.

So off I went to the Himalayas and up I went to the Mount Everest. On the way I met many. How many people must have wanted the moon ... But it was frightfully high. Many people turned around and climbed down. Well, they didn’t deserve the moon anyway. Finally I reached the summit. The top! And from here I could jump and reach the moon! “So you think that you can jump and reach the moon?” I looked around. An old monk, dressed in white robes and sitting on a white stone, had questioned me. I looked around. The place was strewn with corpses. They had gone blue but hadn’t gone off. The ice wouldn’t have let that happen. I turned to the monk, “Yes! I want the moon. For surely it will put the heat out that is burning within me.”

“They too tried. But failed. I advised them not to jump. But they never listened. And now look!” he said, pointing towards the corpses. And I looked sadly. The corpses were sad. Disappointed. “Then how do I reach out to the moon?”

“Look within yourself. Man unfortunately believes only what he sees. For him what is not visible simply does not exist.”

“How can such a big moon exist within me?”

“See, I knew you wouldn’t believe. When you look in the mirror do you see your heart, you lungs, your stomach? No. But does that mean they are not there? Look in the mirror. And you shall find what you seek”. I thought I could ignore him and jump for the moon ... but then I would probably become a corpse too. And if I became a corpse, I wouldn’t be able to do anything. Corpses rarely achieved anything. Some corpses achieved freedom from a painful life. Some people achieved peace when someone turned into a corpse. But by itself a corpse was pretty much useless.

“You think I should go back?”

But the monk wouldn’t answer. The corpses just stared. So I left. On my way down I saw many people climbing up. I could have warned them but I wasn’t a monk. So I let them be.

I reached down. Back to heat! Get rid of it. Moon! Get it. But how? I looked at the moon and cried. The tears rolled out. And then I cried some more. More tears rolled down my eyes and I collected them in a plate. I was told that tears are precious. Maybe I’ll sell them. But what about the moon? The monk had said, “Look in the mirror.” I went and looked in the mirror. Lifeless. Just stared back. Just reflected back ... reflected ... Oh yes! Reflected!

I quickly took the plate of tears out in the garden ... and caught the reflection of the moon in the plateful of tears. I had conquered! I had reached out to the moon! It was captured in my tears and I touched it. And finally the fire within me died... leaving me so cool, so calm, so serene.